Oddly, my bipolar and binge eating symptoms hibernated while I was sick with bronchitis, sinus and ear infections (Can my body not multi-task? Is my brain too small to hold it all?), so the return of mixed-state depression/rage must mean the other stuff is on the way out. Yaay (?)

While being physically sick is no fun, the vacation from mental shit-storms and out of control compulsion is heavenly. It’s like being normal, only full of snot and really, really tired.

I’m still tired and semi-full of snot, but yesterday I rode sad anger back to bed and built a nest of portable projects around me to keep the yammering in my head at bay.

Henry and Emmett attended, but even they knew not to poke the bipolar bear who had no fucks left to give.

One of the hard things about coming back to my normal state of mental abnormality is that I’ve done so much cool art stuff these past two months. When I could barely breathe, I read a bit in Susan Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy about collecting words, then made Word Cookies out of old art magazines.

I carry them in this little bag that fits nicely in my purse, and offer them like Fortune Cookies to whomever I’m with (which has mostly been people at the drug store, my therapist’s staff, and a few civilians willing to chance my germs).

I’ve been brave about drawing in my journal.

And I created a spread that fell together like a story. Poor Tom Hiddleston, dumped by the harlot Taylor Swift, gave a heart-wrenching interview in February’s GQ that reminded me of Sting’s song Why Should I Cry For You? A little research gave me details I’d missed just listening to the song, like “under the Dog Star sail,” which refers to Sirius, and “north, northwest, the Stones of Faroe,” which led me to the tiny cluster of Faroe Islands off the coast of Iceland. I loved the metaphor of a broken-hearted sailor on the bleak, Arctic seas. And I loved pulling together all the elements for the collage.

The wall quilt I started before I got sick is turning into a fabric collage—a place to try new skills like painting and stenciling on fabric. Tearing apart my old art magazines for the Word Cookies, I found wonderful tips and examples. When I gave a fuck, the possibilities thrilled me.

The materials to make three new art journals came out of my cupboard. I finished two. The third now languishes on my table, waiting for the fucks to come back.

The Buckaroo Banzai journal

My favorite quote from the movie by evil Emilio Lazardo.

Art by Andrea Matus DeMeng

I took a class with Andrea at ArtFest.

One week in therapy, Megan and I looked at commitment, not just making commitments to others, but also keeping promises to myself. I realized that my longterm goal of writing a book to be published carried no joy for me anymore. In fact, working on it was often painful. Why was I doing this again? So people at my funeral could get a party favor? Morbid, bipolar-based reasoning.

I don’t have to prove myself a writer anymore, or leave something “of substance” behind. I can spend my life pleasuring myself with weird art that practically falls out of me, instead of grunting over tortured prose. So, I let that ancient goal go. There are, my friend Sue tells me, only so many fucks a person can give.

Yesterday, in my Nest of Apathy and Rage, I emailed Megan, just to whine. I knew, eventually, that the anger and depression would shift, but it was big and ugly yesterday. Even if I had none, I wanted someone to give a fuck.

Have I mentioned that my therapist is awesome? And funny? She wrote back later:

Sorta amazing, really, this blasé acceptance of whatever the day brings. I’m not always this cool, but it’s such a gift when I can be. Seems to me I was raging right up to the point of chills and fever.

A physical shock often resets my bipolar rheostats. Two weeks ago, I was text-wailing at my friend Lily, taking offense wherever I could find it, and wrestling paranoid thoughts to the mat. Today, I did laundry and cleaned up cat barf with nary an emotion in sight.

Except a little glee. I started a goofy spread in my art journal based on something I cut out of an old magazine years ago: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” I worked on this one little piece while my laundry tumbled, and it just made me happy.

I woke up this morning feeling like—as my friend, Lily, so delicately puts it—dog shit on the bottom of God’s shoe. Also, furious. But I pulled on my swimsuit, intending to take it out in the water. Except I was 90 minutes early.

Fury boiled.

I raced to the nearest salon. “Can someone cut my hair right now?”

“Yes!” the hapless pixie piped. “And today all haircuts are $10!”

“Great. Shave it all off. I can’t stand it another second. I’m tired of trying to look like something.”

She did.

And I left feeling like my outside finally matched my inside. Furious. And the closest I’ll ever come to looking like Charlize Theron.

Furious helps. Furious brings the Bad-Ass, which is now in full display.

I roared off to misbehave and brought home two bags full of art supplies. Now we’ll see what fury can really do.

I’ve stalled out in a mixed-state depression. It’s nothing new, not even very noteworthy, but I’m always surprised by how it changes everything. My perception becomes bleak and twisted, my body slow and creaky. I miscommunicate and send mixed messages, because every part of my brain is mixed. I’m confused and confusing.

Depression with rage is so uncomfortable, and so isolating. I hate everyone. Or am scared of them. Ancient resentments and regrets rise up like specters out of unholy ground. This is the part of my bipolarly existence that sees a life as a hermit as the only option.

Like this:

My computer came home today, perkier, but still not firing on all cylinders. The tech-docs did their best and will continue to monitor vitals. At least I don’t have to create posts on my phone anymore.

Perhaps now my vague disquietude will ease up. I feel like I’m constantly patting my mental pockets to make sure I have my keys. What am I forgetting? I start out the day with my gym bag and art tote, then forget my purse. Once back in the car, I realize I’ve forgotten the letter I need to mail. Then, my coffee. Or like yesterday, I left my coat somewhere and still haven’t found it.

I’m discombobulated, constantly ticking important stuff off on my fingers. Cats alive? Gas in the car? Shoes on? I check my calendar, then look at it again because I can’t remember what was there. I’m guessing my anxiety is a little spiky.

I’ve been getting about two hours of sleep at night for several months —even taking Xanax, which is usually all I need. So, my med provider switched me to Clonazepam—same pharm family (anti-anxiety), but with a longer duration plus a heavy weight blanket. I still wake up three or four times a night, but go back to sleep, which I wasn’t able to do on Xanax. And I’m not waking up furious. That alone is a huge relief. Any morning I can get out of bed not pissed off or in PTSD flashback-mode is already a success—no matter what else follows.

Before Anthony, the tech-surgeon, made his house call this afternoon, I vacuumed and dusted a little—something I haven’t done since summer. I told a friend, “You know it’s time to vacuum when the carpet is crunchy.”

Like my computer, I’m still not firing on all cylinders, but we’re both making progress. Two addled brains are better than one, I guess. It’s a good thing the cats are in charge.

My computer is in the hospital, gasping its last, I fear. So I’ll try to create a post with my phone. Technology–heh, heh–ain’t it sumthin’?

I finished the outpatient program and am trying to figure out what’s next. How do I re-engage with the human race? Aside from that being psychologically required, why would I want to?

No more Vyvanse, for one thing. It may have curbed some of my binge eating disorder, but gave me headaches and aggravated an old TMJ injury. Aggravated seems the operative word here. The general consensus is that it also upped my “All People Stink” core belief, which may have contributed to a crankier-assed attitude this past year.

All I know is that it took weeks in group therapy before I could sit through the whole session. It was either bolt or punch some sap in the mouth. Not violent by nature, this impulse scared me a little. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say it also felt good. Which was scary in a whole other way.

Everyone in the group had issues with irritability (a common symptom of just about every mental illness), so we worked with it. A lot. So now I have a folder of “anger management” handouts in my Bipolar Badass arsenal.

Speaking of which, I designed myself a business card for my art show in December. Quite happy with the results.

Another “what next” was asking two of my friends who also suffer from depression and anxiety to form a Sanity Support group. We met last week, and the prognosis looks good for more get-togethers. This one stone could kill so many Crazy Birds for me that it’s hard to keep my WANTING in check. Patience, Grasshopper.

And since my computer is likely on its way to the Tech Morgue, I treated myself the day I discharged from the hospital with a 32 inch TV and a DVD player. No more incantations, Reiki treatments and uncomfortable yoga positions to get a disk to play in my wheezy computer. Now, all I need do is push a button. Pure Heaven.

The final “next” for now is working through the book SeekingSafety: A Treatment Manual for PTSD and Substance Abuse with my therapist. I’m sure the next “next” will rise from that.

I’ve completed six days in the Lutheran Hospital outpatient program, and I can’t tell yet if it’s making me better or worse.

There are two designations—IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program) 1 and 2. None of the literature explains the difference between the groups, but, basically IOP1 is for more functional, more acutely symptomatic folk. IOP2 is for more severely ill folk who maybe require other services (home care, rehab, medical, etc.).

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The first two days I attended IOP1. The group was HUGE, 14-18 people with the usual one or two who dominated every conversation and folks talking over each other. I thought I would lose what little mind I had left.

I watched my intolerance and irritation skyrocket. My Libra penchant for fairness blew up into a neurotic need to silence the blabbermouths so that the silent suffers might get a second to squeak out a comment. But I also realized this was all my shit. If the facilitators felt no need to shut down the usurpers or redirect the tangential wanderers, then it wasn’t my place to step in. Instead I clutched my purse to my chest and took deep breaths.

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After the second day (and no sleep that night), I knew I needed to talk to my designated handler. I told her through bitey, frantic, tear-and-snot laden spew that I couldn’t take another day of it. She listened with a beatific smile and commented in a gentle don’t-spook-the-Tasmanian Devil voice. Perhaps I should move to the other group. And feel free to find a quiet place to breathe whenever the desire to punch a talky-talker in the face arose.

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My first day at “the other end of the hall” felt restful in comparison. There were only five of us in group, and I learned things about PTSD—one of my diagnoses, though something my therapist and I have never really explored. We usually have other immediate shinola to deal with, so we’ve only ever just touched on it. THIS was what I was hoping for—some new information, some new tools, a direction.

But, the next day the group expanded to 13, and the whole issue of blatherers and time-sucks reappeared on a crazier level. I tried to be compassionate, but that well seems to be dry at the moment. I know folks talk out of nervousness, insecurity, etc., so I tried to reason with myself. I still ended up out in the hall with my earbuds firmly in place, listening to Billy Joel sing “Innocent Man.”

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I blame the insurance industry and our butt-head Governor, Terry Branstad. Most insurance coverage only allows three days a week in outpatient care, so Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays end up with twice the group size as Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s stressful to go from a small, intimate group where folks feel safe enough to open up, to a mob where everyone talks at the same time.

And because our Governor closed most of the mental health hospitals, took away funding for behavioral services, and basically told folks with mental illness to “get over it,” the programs that are left are bursting at the seams.

I watch the kind and knowledgable staff at Lutheran run around like headless chickens, trying to accommodate everyone’s needs, shore up folks enough to leave so that those who have been waiting a month for an opening in the program can take their place. The nurse practitioner who talked to me about medication laughed long and loud when I called it “a three-ring shit show.” This seems to be my new favorite phrase.

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I came home every day more exhausted and people-avoidant than ever. I feel like an Introvert In Extremis, only able to function after hours of silent cat time, a couple episodes of Fringe and a frozen pizza from Costco (they have the best thin crust sausage pizzas…). Even then, “functional” may mean taking a four-hour nap or washing the dishes.

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Yesterday I did my laundry at 3:00 in the morning, because I couldn’t stand the thought of going to the laundromat on the weekend when everyone else goes there. So, because I was already awake at 3:00, I did laundry for the first time in my apartment complex’s washer/dryer. Granted, one is not supposed to use the machines until 8:00 out of respect for the tenants who live next to the Common Room. But since I hate people right now, I didn’t care. And I tried to be quiet. No one came after me with a knife, and no one slashed my tires later, so I think I got away with it.

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In between tippy-toeing, I sat at the nice dining table and worked on my journal. Along with my wheeled laundry hamper, I brought my traveling studio (everything should be on wheels) and a big mug of hot chai. I sat at my own little coffee shop with my earbuds in and the smell of clean wafting around me, and even through the itchy buzz of being up at 3:00 doing something illicit, I could feel my mind smooth out.

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The same nurse practitioner who laughed so hard with me suggested a new strategy for next week. Bring my wheely cart and when group bugs me too much, take it to this out-of-the-way lounge I found and do art until I feel like coming back. I tried that on Friday, and I left the hospital less drained. I met my two meditation buddies for lunch and lasted about 30 minutes before I completely faded. My well is dry. That’s all there is to it.

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I think the trick is to not panic. I feel myself considering the new drugs this kindly nurse practitioner suggests, even though I sat with my own NP before I started IOP and recounted my long list of Drugs Tried and why they didn’t work. She reminded me that there really is nothing new in psychotropics, just tweaks to the same old formulas. If they didn’t work then, they won’t now.

I’m grateful that the Lutheran staff is so willing to work with me. It’s ironic that the adaptability and flexibility I need from them is part of what makes me so irritable there. It’s a very loose, laissez-faire set-up for people who have different special needs. I must try to give my Libran craving for fairness, order and rules a rest. Maybe I can give her a Xanax.

Rage seems to be intrinsic to my flavor of bipolar disorder. In a mixed state, where symptoms of both depression and mania manifest, my “manic” is some form of agitation—anxiety, compulsive behavior, or rage.

I made the journal spread above in the midst of anger so black and sharp I could barely breathe. I painted over the picture on the right—mini-me with my dog, Rebel—then slashed at it with a steak knife. The violence stunned me, violence aimed at myself, at the innocent and vulnerable part of me. I painted in the gouges, then echoed the savagery on the opposite page.

I left it that way for several days, coming back to take in the images and process the layers of Truth I’d uncovered.

I used to believe there must be a reason I got so mad. I used to sort through all the old betrayals, snubs, and layers of unfairness in my cheesecloth memory. But, there’s no reason for my rage other than funky brain chemistry. Trying to justify it only throws napalm on the fire.

Rage is just another part of me, like the creeping hopelessness that sits on the other end of the spectrum, like my blue eyes, like the way I put words or colors together. And like everything else, the only thing to do with it is welcome it home. That’s when I pulled Thich Nhat Hahn’s Anger off my bookshelf and found the words my Rage needed.

Today, this moment, contains no rage. This morning I wrote in my journal next to The Dalai Lama:

“When the symptoms are big, there’s always this base undercurrent of failure, a deep Mariana Trench of wrongness, that awful and vague sense that I should be doing something else/more, that I should be something else/more. It negates all that I do and all that I am. It robs me of any satisfaction or sufficiency. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to these journals now. They are so immediate. The rush of rightness washes over me without any censor. Pictures together tell an immediate story. Color bypasses thought. The soft texture of the Pan Pastels signals instant comfort, and I feel masterful… I feel incredibly lucky and grateful for this tool.”

Journaling in coffee shops is a big part of my MO. It’s how I push the worst of the internal pain and distortion to my margins. It’s how I remember who I am. Journaling is vital for me. It’s medicine.

Now that I’ve embraced art journaling, I needed to figure out how to make it mobile, how to make it as easy as my old $1 spiral notebooks used to be. Some folks I met at ArtFest do their page set-ups at home and only journal out in public. Some take a few art supplies. Tracy likes to have people stop and talk about his journaling. He even invites them to add to it. Teesha wants to be left alone.

I put together a bag of supplies and launched. It helped that our local coffee shop closed for a couple of days and reopened under new management—Georgina, a sassy, gregarious New Zealander who is bent on upgrading the food quality and increasing the friendly factor. It seemed an auspicious start—new art form and new digs.

Since I’ve journaled in public for years, I’m used to the odd personal inquiry. I don’t get bothered much, but if folks see me as a regular with pen and notebook, eventually they ask what I’m writing. I’m happy to share. It’s also a chance to advocate as a person with mental illness. Almost to a person, they are or know of someone with mental illness. Conversation ensues. Stigma weakens. This is my superpower.

I’m finding that art journaling is a more open invitation. First it was the coffee shop staff—mostly college and very young adults—who seemed drawn to my booth like fluttery moths to a flame. They were fascinated, almost giddy, and inordinately proud that I did this weird thing in their coffee shop. I’ve become a kind of celebrity with my little bottle of matte medium and magazine gleans. They introduce me to their families. They give me muffins fresh from the ovens. It’s so sweet, and totally baffling.

It’s much more visual, this art journaling thing. My crap is spread out on the table and hard to miss. Other caffeinators wander by and stop to find out what it’s all about. And I’m happy to share.

These last few weeks have been rough, mental health-wise. The Bad Thoughts never stop, and reality is a little hard to recognize. When it starts to drag me under, I take a deep breath and go glue something or spread paint. It helps.

In one of my buying frenzies, I ordered some old art ‘zines from Teesha Moore, the wonderful art journalist who organized ArtFest. I figured there’d be lots of stuff to glean and pretty pictures to soothe my Brain-On-Fire (which would be my Hunger Games name).

In one of the zines from 2007, Teesha wrote an article about how she created an art journal page. The more I read, the angrier I got. She had lots of Do’s and Don’ts, particularly Don’t ever, under any circumstance, just cut a picture out and glue it to the page without altering it. And then there was an endless list of art supplies—types of paints and pens, markers and pastels—all with their own Do’s and Don’ts.

I thought, no wonder I could never do this. Complete intimidation. In my righteous indignation, I created a FuckYou,ThankYou,Teesha spread in my journal. Part defiance, part homage, I used some of Teesha’s techniques and a lot of swear words. And it is glorious.

Anger can light a fire under creativity. It can conquer Defeat. It can pound a fence post in the ground and say, This is as far as you get to push me.

A Brain-on-Fire can be terrifying and it can be an open door. With May being Mental Health Awareness month, I’m happy to share.